


we could be something

by carpethefanfics



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Ian, Future Fic, Hospital Scenes, Ian and Mickey are best friends, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Many relationships between, Smoking, Swearing, Until they're something more, Violence, injuries, they get there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24896824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpethefanfics/pseuds/carpethefanfics
Summary: “This… us… it could be something.”Ian whispers into the side of the pillow that his head is tilted on. His eyes are slipping shut and Mickey is staring at the hospital needles and the IV line that are sticking out of his arm. He’s got these bandages covering his chest, over his shoulder, and his face is bruised. It makes Mickey shudder; like ice is running down his spine, under his skin. He wants to lean forward; wants to wrap their hands together just so he doesn’t feel so fucking disconnected from him. But he waits. He waits until he’s sure Ian’s drowsiness has washed over him before he lets his fingertips dance along the back of Ian’s hand. Then he responds.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 16
Kudos: 138





	we could be something

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to get this one out of my head to finish up the three other projects I have on the go for this damn ship lol
> 
> I take a lot of liberties with the timeline in this one. Ian and Mickey are best friends- they never get together as kids- and the fic rolls through their lives on that basis. I keep some pieces of the canon and don't touch on ours- not intentionally, it just worked out that way. It's definitely Shameless typical though with the smoking, violence and swearing. I hope you enjoy.

“This… us… it could be something.”

Ian whispers into the side of the pillow that his head is tilted on. His eyes are slipping shut and Mickey is staring at the hospital needles and the IV line that are sticking out of his arm. He’s got these bandages covering his chest, over his shoulder, and his face is bruised. It makes Mickey shudder; like ice is running down his spine, under his skin. He wants to lean forward; wants to wrap their hands together just so he doesn’t feel so fucking disconnected from him. But he waits. He waits until he’s sure Ian’s drowsiness has washed over him before he lets his fingertips dance along the back of Ian’s hand. Then he responds.

It doesn’t come up again. Er- they don’t _talk_ about it again after that. Despite the long nights they spend in Ian’s room or at the dug outs or under the fucking high school bleachers _just talking_. It’s all they’ve ever done- talked about life and the southside and maybe even a few dreams here or there.

And despite the three in the morning texts Mickey wakes up to when Ian doesn’t feel quite attached to the world because his thoughts are sliding through his fingers and he needs to be reminded the world is solid- needs Mickey to remind him to world is solid.

And despite the sibling pregnancies and almost marriages; the goddamn homophobic piece of shit of a father who turned out to be as undeserving of the title father as Mickey thought… There’s death and guns and juvie and drugs and fucking high school exams and those _stupid_ college applications. There’s even more breakdowns and nights where neither of them sleeps, but they don’t talk about that moment in the hospital room.

Mickey doesn’t really know if Ian even remembers sitting there whispering those things that Mickey had always hoped he’d whisper. He was in a drug induced coma for the better part of the three days as the doctors tried to get his body to heal after the car accident. _Fucking Monica_. He was worrying Mickey to no end the entire time. Mickey doesn’t think his heart has crawled back up from his stomach since he got the call. Well, until Ian’s words toppled over him- _just for him_ … no one else privy. But now he doesn’t know if he made it up because it was something he wanted to hear; or if maybe he had been the one to say it first.

He holds onto it anyway.

*

Ian gets into college- something they never in a million fucking years thought would happen. He gets that letter in the mail and everyone is crying, and Mickey swears to god Lip cries too. _Swears to god he doesn’t_. It’s like getting hit by train… you don’t think you’re going to get out and someone shines a beacon into the hobble that is your world.

Chicago State is big- with its ridiculously large stone buildings and geometric almost green windows filling the campus with light. The dorms are just as small as Lip tells Ian they’re going to be but Ian’s just happy to have his own room. Mickey’s been opening up boxes of shit to unload into it all morning, but then he drops a book and finds a picture of them. Its corners are curled and faded like someone’s been holding it and the oils from their skin have been melting into the colours. His heart tightens at the image of Ian holding it, staring at it, thinking about the two of them on a summer day long before now.

“Pre-Physical Therapy huh?”

“Figure if I can’t fuckin join em, I can help em when they get back from combat.”

*

When Ian comes back home for the first time, he seems lighter, **freer**. Mickey feels the familiar curl of jealousy that makes him want to snarl and snap- _why can’t he be free, why can’t he be out in the world, why can’t there be hope for more than the Southside streets and the parole office and night classes for him?_ But it quells when Ian’s hand clasps his shoulder. It’s kind of nice actually- to see his best friend happy, to see him thriving instead of locked away inside his own head.

But then Ian raises his arms to throw Franny into the air, her laughter like fucking sunshine warming the room, and Mickey catches the bruise on Ian’s hip as his shirt rides up his torso. It looks less like Ian got punched and more like a fucking love bite. The jealousy cracks back up Mickey’s body and settles angrily in the pit of his stomach. But Mickey bites his cheek and swallows thickly and doesn’t say a single fucking word about it because Ian’s his best friend, _nothing more_.

He’s said it a thousand times before. He’ll say it another thousand.

Even if he doesn’t really believe it.

*

Ian brings home Trevor.

Curly brown hair and lanky frame and a fucking goatee thing on his chin. He’s got arm tattoos and jewellery hanging from his neck and piercings ornately littering his skin. He remembers hearing a fuzzy voice in the background on a few of their phone calls when Ian was still away that doesn’t become clear in his mind until Trevor’s gripping his hand with a smile and a few words.

_“Love the knuckle tattoos man.”_

_“Uh, thanks…”_

Mickey doesn’t want to like him. Wants to bristle at him- be grumpy and annoyed and pull Ian’s attention his way. But he can’t. Trevor’s laid back and he watches Ian talk like he’s got nothing but wonderful things spilling out of his mouth even though he’s just talking about a class. He looks so open and comfortable and content with Ian’s arm sprawled across his shoulder that Mickey can’t help it but feel some half-assed form of happiness. Trevor’s nice and Ian needs that- needs someone who is kind and, most of all, _unapologetically themselves_. So, they’re good together and Mickey tells Ian so when he leans into him, _“Whaddya think Mick?”_

Mickey tries not to let Ian’s hot breath against his neck and that familiar scent hit him, but it does, so hard that his body freezes and his lungs still. It’s quick and he pulls himself together fast. He’s pretty sure it’s fast enough that Ian doesn’t notice how much invading his space has hit him, but he doesn’t realize it’s not fast enough that Trevor doesn’t notice. Those eyes narrow in on him and he can’t help but flicker his gaze away.

A few weeks later Ian’s calling him and blaring into the phone with blind rage.

_“He said he was uncomfortable with a boyfriend who was so fucking close to his best friend! Who the fuck does his think he is!”_

Mickey snorts, _“Asshole.”_

They break up.

*

“Got a date?”

Fiona’s soft voice trickles through the kitchen as Mickey reaches down to the coffee table to grab his wallet, phone and car keys. He’s been staying at the Gallaghers since Ian left. A room was open, and they needed the rent money with Ian gone. _Plus, fuck Terry._

He’s been trying really hard the last few months not to get swallowed up in how comfortable and familiar and warm it was here. He tried to leave, go out, find people he could stand to be around and remind himself that this wasn’t forever. He’d move on eventually- find a nice place all on his own where he could move fucking forward. Hopefully.

He bites his lower lip as he slips the contents of his hands into various pockets of his dark jeans realizing he hasn’t really answered Fiona yet. When he turns back, he sees Ian’s head perk up from the kitchen table. He’s home for his second semester break over a particularly crisp February and he’s spent way too many days reading.

Mickey wants to say it’s just drinks with a few people from work, just a night at a bar where he avoids making eye contact with anyone in particular and goes home feeling slightly less comfortable than when he had left. It's just a bonus that he can get away from the crying baby that is stressing Lip the fuck out. But part of him, the part of him that wants Ian and wants to tell Ian he wants him also wonders if Ian wants him. So, he smiles, flickers his gaze between Fiona and Ian and breathes out with a wink, “Don’t wait up.”

Ian’s jaw tenses.

Mickey spends the entire subway ride thinking about it.

*

But then there’s Caleb.

He’s tall with broad shoulders and well-formed biceps and a chiselled jaw. He comes over in the summer when there’s a Gallagher BBQ and the heat is sticky, so the pool is open. He’s wearing a navy-blue firefighter t-shirt and he’s fucking hot because _of fucking course he is_. They look picturesque together- it makes Mickey want to drown himself… or maybe Caleb, or maybe Ian, he’s not entirely sure.

The feeling gets worse as the day rolls on. He’s charming and he saddles up to the kids so quickly- throwing them in the air and hoisting them on his shoulders for water wars. Ian’s got this smile plastered on his face the whole time he’s watching him, and he laughs at every laugh and he smiles at all of Caleb’s smiles. It’s sweet. Sickeningly so.

“This one seems good right?”

Fiona leans against him and Mickey can only nod as he sips his beer.

But they don’t really see Caleb after that.

Or Ian.

Schools busy and works busy and the winter feels like it brings this haze of days with it.

One time, Mickey does hear Ian talking to the guy over winter break. His voice is unnaturally soft and uncomfortably low, and Mickey doesn’t want to strain to hear him, but he does. He’s almost one hundred percent positive they’re arguing.

“It does count- guy, girl, whoever, it fucking counts.”

Mickey sits with him in his room in the aftermath of something clearly hitting Ian hard that he also is very sure he doesn’t want to talk about. They sit silently while Ian pulls a cigarette pack out of his pocket.

“Fucking boyfriends.”

Then he tells Mickey he wishes he was a better person. That he’s trying to be one. That he knows he can be a lot, that his illness makes him a lot sometimes. He says he wishes he could be more kind and less angry and maybe a little more understanding than he’s always been. Mickey just sits. He lets Ian speak; doesn’t interrupt despite how much he wants to tell him that he’s **_so fucking wrong_**.

Ian is kind, more so than he thinks, Mickey thinks back to being kids and having no friends until a little ginger boy with freckles like stars pressed his hand against Mickey’s arm and shouted _“Tag, you’re it!_ ” He also wants to tell Ian that he’s gentle, so fucking gentle, especially when he presses his lips to the band-aid on Franny’s knee. And that he’s wonderful too. That, beyond that, if what Mickey heard earlier is what he thinks then he probably has a fucking right to be angry.

But Mickey doesn’t. And when Ian’s done talking, he goes downstairs to get him a glass of water because his voice has gone hoarse from the straining and the holding back and the jaw tightening. He leans himself back against the wall with his legs straight out on the bed and his fingers running soothingly through Ian's hair as he listens to Ian falling asleep on his stomach with his face towards Mickey.

Watching him and not being able to do more than he is already to make Ian feel better… it makes him ache.

*

Ian stays with Caleb for another few months. They break up quietly on a cool morning in Caleb’s loft downtown. Ian doesn’t tell Mickey or anyone really until he comes back for Fiona’s birthday and doesn’t mention Caleb until they’re alone on the back-porch smoking. _He cheated_. _Again_. He says it so fucking quietly that Mickey knows he’s afraid of how much it hurts.

Mickey wants to beat him up. Pictures himself rolling up to the loft, wherever the fuck it is, or maybe the firehouse and rocking his knuckles off that stupid jaw. But instead of telling him _that,_ they talk about Debbie’s most recent welding certification, Lip’s soon to be new baby, Carl’s deployment date, and Kev’s budding gym career. Mickey’s started teaching, but he doesn’t talk about that. It’s just math to kids who were like him and it’s going to be a secret until he’s got something steady, something more promising.

They head back inside to let Fiona blow out her candles and eat the cake but, they step back outside as they do ( _nicotine fix_ ) and Ian sighs, “I miss him. It was—bad, obviously, and I’m so fucking angry… but I still miss him. Fucked up right?”

Mickey bumps their shoulders together as he looks over at him, “That’s okay.”

God what he would give to wrap his arms around those shoulders and remind him, even if only for a moment, that he deserves something beautiful. Something real with someone who gives a fuck about him beyond the physical intimacies that Ian always seeks. He deserves someone who _knows_ him.

But again, because the alternate option is all Mickey has, he slips his hands into his jeans and smiles, “You’ll find someone better.”

*

Ian’s winter term passes by faster than the rest and Mickey’s grateful for the summer again. Sure, it’s hot as fuck and he hates waking up with the sheen of sweat on his skin but **everyone’s home**. With his family, the mornings were quiet and tepid and potentially volatile if you caught them on a good day. But here, with the Gallaghers, the noise of arguing and toast popping and laundry spinning and feet on staircases actually comforts Mickey. It feels full. 

“You know you can bring the guy here right?”

Mickey snorts into his coffee and the feeling of it hot and burning down his throat makes him curse. Debbie’s standing in the kitchen buttering sandwiches at the counter for when she takes the kids to the park later and looking at Mickey pointedly, “Like- if you’re dating him- you can bring him over.”

“Not dating.”

It comes out of his mouth quick as he hears the bounding of Ian’s footsteps down the steps. He’s got these shorts on that make Mickey’s heart stutter, “Run?”

Mickey grunts, “Never gunna happen,” and Ian laughs.

When the door shuts, he hears Debbie again, “Because of Ian?”

Mickey’s eyes dart up and he stares at her for a minute. _Yeah because of Ian. Of course it’s because of Ian_. He knows he could date- that he wants to date. It would be nice to feel someone’s hand in his and walk into restaurants with and kiss messily against his car or the front door or a bedroom door. But it doesn’t feel fair. To him or to them. It also doesn’t feel like it would be real. Even the guy he’s fucking right now with the great chest and the messy auburn hair who moans out things when he fucks Mickey that make Mickey tense. It’s not real. He wants to hear them coming out of Ian’s mouth. Not some random guy whose saying it to get off rather than saying it into Mickey’s sweaty skin because he means it.

“Aren’t you lonely?”

When he doesn’t respond Debbie nods at him as she turns to put the knife in the sink, and she strolls out of the room leaving a wistful Mickey in her wake.

*

So, he dates.

Well, the Mickey version of dating. Probably way too slow for some and definitely not enough for others but there’s one guy- he’s so kind it makes Mickey’s teeth hurt. He’s tall with a great chest and he’s fucking blonde, but he’s got a quick wit and he doesn’t take Mickey’s shit. He takes him out to bars and restaurants and movies and over the span of two months Mickey realizes they haven’t even really touched. A few shoulder brushes hear and knees bouncing off knees but nothing more. He asks the guy… Alex… about it, gruffly and harsh, the exact opposite of how he means too.

“Eh why don’t you want to fucking touch me?”

“I do Mickey. I just want you to _want me_ to touch you before I do.”

It makes Mickey’s eyes go wide- makes him wrap his hand in the guys, shirt and pull him forward.

That’s when Alex gets handsy. Not too handsy though- almost like he’s testing Mickey’s boundaries. And Mickey appreciates that for a split second because what he appreciates more is the aggressive way Alex looms over him- chest to chest, one hand gripping his hip and the other pulling his neck forward. Its fucking hot. Mickey’s lower back is pressed into the side of his car and he can feel the slow way Alex grinds against him. Sloppy car kiss, **check**.

And, since he only thinks about Ian twice the whole time, it’s got to be progress, right?

It’s the reason he brings him to the unnecessary firework extravaganza they pull off in the empty field with the burnt trashcans near the subway underpass because it’s August and its southside and _why the hell not_. Alex gets along with everyone and Mickey’s skin is thrumming with how well it’s going. Fiona’s laughing at his jokes and Lip actually smiles at Alex’s brand of sarcasm which had almost entirely the reason he caught Mickey’s attention the first time they met. He’s also in the military and he’s been home from his last deployment for the last year so, he’s telling Carl all about the perks of being a medic rather than being a foot soldier. 

Ian gives him a tight-lipped smile after talking to Alex for the better part of the last half hour, “I like the guy.”

Mickey huffs and rolls his eyes, “Alex. You like _Alex_.”

Ian smirks, “Okay tough guy- I like _Alex_.”

Mickey gets quiet, “Yeah?”

“Yeah Mick.”

*

They stay together through the fall and the winter until the next summer rolls around and there’s a question open between them that Mickey hasn’t answered yet. _Move in with me?_ Mickey hasn’t been sure what to say as they move through the next month of barbeques and pool days and family dinners. Sure, he’s been spending every fucking weekend there and often some weeknights and Alex makes him happy but… but….

Well, Mickey isn’t really sure what’s stopping him.

He lets it consume him some nights and pushes through it most others. Alex starts working more hours at the hospital and Mickey finally tells everyone about the teaching. Ian actually punches his shoulder for keeping it from him, but he’s got this big wide, proud smile that makes Mickey warm down to his toes. No more existential crises for him. Well, at least about _that_. There’s one about his future with Alex that ends up with him sitting with his feet dangling over the counter in the kitchen of an apartment Ian got back when he started his third year. Mickey can’t really believe Ian’s about to start year four. Anyway, there’s a bottle of the cheapest vodka between them in Ian’s hand, and now that they’ve rolled through all normal topics, Mickey’s drunk enough to ask what he needs to ask.

“Can I be in lo- can I be happy and have an actual career and have you guys and not have fucking Terry trying to kill me? Isn’t some fucking asshole sitting up in the universe playing fucking puppets with us going to smite me or some shit for trying to have it when I shouldn’t?”

Suddenly Ian is standing between his legs with his hands gripping Mickey’s shoulders and pulling their eyes together before Mickey can sigh out something else. He looks angry- not the angriest Mickey’s ever seen him but _definitely_ pissed the fuck off.

“Shut your fucking mouth Mickey. Of course, you fucking deserve this what kind of stupid question is that?”

Mickey’s a little stunned. And also overheated by the way Ian’s hands are on him and his breath is on his skin and they’re faces are so fucking close. He’s got Alex’s face in his mind but that other part, the part that’s still so fucking tied up in what could have been, wants to lean forward and just taste him. Just once.

“He loves you. He’s in love with you, and you,” Ian almost looks pained for a second, “you love him. You fucking deserve _everything_.”

He doesn’t... love Alex that is. He realizes that more so than ever before as Ian’s saying it. He doesn’t kiss Ian either.

And he feels both guilty and regretful the whole drive home.

*

They break up a week later.

Not because of Ian or Mickey or Alex or anything really. They break up because when the army calls, Alex had promised to answer.

“What would you have said?”

Mickey stops from where he stands in the front hallway Alex’s apartment.

“If I wasn’t leaving, would you have moved in with me?”

Mickey turns back to look at him with his hand on the doorknob.

“No.”

*

Mickey finds his own one-bedroom apartment after that. Staying at the Gallaghers after Alex feels like taking a hundred steps backwards instead of starting a new chapter like he wants to. He also doesn’t surface for weeks at a time, in spite of all the calls and the dinners and the angry non-sibling-yet-somehow-siblings showing up at his door with beer and of course, threats.

_"If I have to come back here I'll beat your ass Milkovich... Plus, Franny misses you."_

But he just buries himself in his work- using it as the excuse he needs to avoid them. Lesson plans and guests who’ve gotten out of that life and assignments and marking. He gets offered a position to teach every day of the week with multiple different subjects at the juvenile correctional facility instead of part-time and he takes it. He tells the Gallaghers that he’s okay, he just needs some time and some space. They think it’s because Alex broke his heart or some shit. As if this love lost is something that could break Mickey fucking Milkovich. But honestly, as heartless as it may sound, Alex leaving doesn’t hurt all that bad. It’s been more like losing a friend- it hits you differently.

What he’s really grieving is the realization that all his time spent trying to move on from his best friend was for fucking nothing. He’s still pining- still in love- still thinking about what it would be like to call Ian his. And he hates himself for it.

When Lip, the last of the group to ram down his front door, knocks he knows he’s been gone too long.

_“You can’t fuck your way through a heartbreak Mick.”_

_“I can fucking try.”_

Afterwards, when he's had three beers and half-ass a promise to drop by and gotten to see some new pictures of the baby, Mickey images Lip is off to tell Ian he saw Mickey. He can picture their conversation in his head. Something quick and easy and always so a conversation through the eyes- something between brothers.

_“He’s gunna be okay,” Lip will murmur, and Ian will grunt back, “When?”_

It takes a gunshot wound bringing Carl home from halfway across the world, a fistfight that Liam starts at school, and a couple of screaming arguments between Fiona and Debbie, but it pulls Mickey back home, his real home.

He doesn’t talk about Alex.

They let him.

 _Ian_ lets him.

*

“He’s dying.”

Iggy shows up at his door with a cigarette hanging from his mouth and a scar running from the corner of his eye down to his jaw that Mickey’s never seen before. _Terry always did like to go for the face_ , Mickey thinks.

“How the fuck did you figure out where I live?”

Iggy rolls his eyes as he pulls another cigarette out of the pack in his hand and taps the end of it against the container like he has since they started smoking at like thirteen, “He’s fucking dying Mick.”

“Yeah you said that.”

Mickey raises his hand to rub his eyes and sighs, “Good fucking riddance.”

“Thought you might want to say goodbye or go to hell or something.”

Mickey snorts, _go to hell or something_.

When Iggy leaves Mickey debates it- going to say goodbye to his dad. He had always been a huge asshole. Mickey can’t ever remember a day in his life when Terry had patted him on the back without leaving a bruise or told him something kind, something a dad should say to a kid. He’d always been a fucking terror. Mickey wondered if his grandfather has been as much of a brute- if a younger, kinder, softer version of his father was trapped inside him or even existed at all. Either way, Mickey didn’t really give a fuck. Terry made his choices- abusive parents or traumatic circumstances be damned- he never even tried to fight the ugliest parts of himself that ruined his children.

Mickey goes though.

And when Terry backhands him with those rings on his fingers for telling him he hopes he burns in hell, Mickey spits blood in his eyes.

*

Mickey’s eyes blink open and his head turns trying to focus on anything in the room. There’s a sterile smell and a beeping and his heads against a pillow that feels lumpy as shit. Then he hears him, “You’re a fucking moron.”

He tilts his head and blinks again, “What the _fuck_ were you thinking?”

His memory flashes. _Terry. Lots of yelling. The gun._ His shoulders tense as it comes back to him and he grunts at the pain that runs down his arm. _The sound of cracking. The smell of iron. The feeling of the wooden floors in a living room he hadn’t been in a while._ His knuckles subconsciously tighten, and pain shoots up his arm again. He looks down to see purple littered across pale skin.

“Dammit Mickey.”

He nearly died, he thinks as he falls back into sleep to the feel of Ian’s hot palm on the back of his hand.

When he next wakes up, he’s in bed still, and Ian’s body is in a chair that is way to small next to him, sprawled with his head tipped at an uncomfortable angle. There’s some drool so he’s definitely asleep. He’s got the same clothes on from the morning when it happened, Mickey realizes. He remembers being there- on the steps of the Gallaghers telling Ian about Terry, telling Ian he wasn't sure if he was going to go, then changing his mind and going as he got partway down the block. If Ian hasn’t changed then he probably hasn’t eaten either. Afraid to be away from him in case he woke up alone.

“He hasn’t been home,” Carl mutters handing Mickey a styrofoam cup of water.

 **He knows the feeling**.

*

“You can’t—you can’t do shit like that.”

Ian’s voice sounds fucking broken and exhausted.

“It’s alright Ian,” he smiles. He wants to reach his hand forward, wants to touch Ian and reassure him but Ian’s staying far enough back wringing his hands together that Mickey knows Ian’s holding his anger and sadness back by a thread.

“I had to see him. I didn’t know he was- that it would end up…”

Mickey feels helpless being so fucking far from him and yet so fucking close. He’s still sore but it doesn’t stop him from pulling himself up with a grunt and a cry. Ian is by his side so quickly he practically slams his knee off the hard plastic of the hospital bed. Mickey doesn’t know what to say to Ian as he watches Ian’s glassy eyes turn into tears so close to his face. He simply raises his hands to pull Ian down to him- to sprawl his ridiculously long and heavy body out over him despite the ache of his bruises and the pain behind his eyes. Ian breathes unsteadily and Mickey feels it against the crook of his neck where Ian’s burying his face.

He seems to be struggling with the truth of it- with Mickey’s reasoning- with why he would have gone no matter what.

“I’m fucking pissed at you but- but,” Ian mutters as he slides more against Mickey’s side so he’s not entirely crushing him and flops one leg over Mickey’s to stay connected. To stay close. “You need to sleep Mick,” and he slips his arm across Mickey’s middle and presses his mouth into Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey laces their fingers together as much as he can with a needle in his hand and slips into a calmness. From Ian or the morphine or both maybe. The moment feels hopelessly tender, he thinks as he loses himself to it.

The nurse who enters looks at them both and shakes his head.

*

It’s been long enough that Carl decides it’s time for his next deployment. He’s healed well since the first run when he was just fucking 18 and the scar is nothing too gnarly. The doctors are more than happy to sign off on his rehab forms with a clean bill of health. It hadn’t really impeded any of his physical therapy anyway considering no major organs or muscle was really marked up. Plus, from Carl’s own mouth, _chicks dig it._

Fiona had slapped him upside the head, _“Don’t make it a fucking habit.”_

So, they’re at the base where they board the buses to go to planes or something. Mickey isn’t sure of the process- even though he dated a fucking army medic for almost a year. Carl is decked out in his uniform with his bag hanging over his shoulder and his arms wrapped around Lip. He looks way too old for Mickey’s liking- it makes him feel old. He’s not- he’s barely fucking twenty-six but still. He remembers Ian telling him about Carl microwaving fish and putting barbie dolls in the toaster. He remembers freaking the fuck out right before he moved in and the idiot had set fire to a couch on the side of the road for fucking fun. Military school or not the kid was a goddamn _menace_. 

Mickey wraps his arms around Carl’s shoulders even if the guy is bigger than him now, “Come back without a fucking injury this time asshole.”

Carl’s still smirking as he wraps his arms around Ian whose standing beside Mickey, “What he said.”

Fiona’s crying when it’s her turn to wrap Carl up in her arms and Mickey can’t help but look at Ian’s face, “Gunna cry too you soft bitch?”

Ian laughs away the glossy eyes and slides his arm around Mickey’s shoulders, “I miss him already.”

Mickey leans into Ian’s hold, “Me too.”

*

It’s late when they get home- he’s got Freddie curled in his arms the whole drive back to the Gallagher house. He places him in bed with a peck to his forehead and a tug of his favourite blanket. He doesn’t think he can drive home now- way too fucking tired and his limbs are sore from holding the kid. But it’s definitely not late enough that he can sleep. His skin is buzzing from earlier in the day and the feeling of Ian’s arm around him. His mind hasn’t been racing necessarily but it’s been doing something that makes him feel tired in all the wrong ways.

He’s tired of pining- tired of wishing for more- tired of coming to the realization that maybe he should start dating again and just accept it. So, he sits on the porch steps in the back looking out at a clear, black night sky and wondering why the fuck he’s still here instead of moving forward like everyone else.

He comes back to himself when he hears the door open and Ian slips onto the porch step next to him. He’s in a t-shirt and sweats- the grey ones Mickey likes so much and always averts his eyes from. He figures it’s a solid tactic as he definitely fears his own lack of control when it comes to Ian looking gorgeous.

“You, ah, you still keep in touch with army medic guy?”

 _Alex_ , Mickey thinks, _why can't you say his damn name_.

“Not since he left no.”

Ian picks the cigarette out of his hand, “You miss him?”

Mickey turns to look at him with a quirked eyebrow, “We just never talked about it. And you haven’t dated anyone since Mick. Just wanted to make sure, you know, being at the base and all, that you’re good.”

Mickey takes the cigarette back, “I’m good.”

“You loved him, right?”

“Maybe. I don't know.”

They sit in a comfortable silence for a while. Finishing the cigarette and another one after that. Mickey’s hyper aware of the face that Ian keeps bouncing his leg- a nervous tick he’s never fully realized he has. His knee keeps touching Mickey’s ever so often and his thigh is brushing up against Mickey’s own thigh. When Ian breaks the silence Mickey’s not at all that surprised.

“You—at the hospital. Back in high school. You never- When I asked you, you know, when I asked you... Well, wasn’t really a question but what I said. You never said anything back.”

Ian’s voice isn’t hoarse from sleep; it’s soft, like he’s been in his head since they got home just like Mickey has. Clearly, he’s been wanting to talk, if the bouncing knee has anything to say about it. Clearly, he’s been wanting to find the words to say to Mickey that Mickey’s always been wanting to say to him.

“I did.”

Ian's voice shoots up, “What? No, you-”

“Waited. Until you were asleep,” he says, leans back to let his eyes stare into what seems like a dark abyss above them and tries not to focus on the burning feeling against the side of his face where Ian’s staring.

“I didn’t know you remembered that. You’ve been good- you seem good. You didn’t need to hear what I had to say about it.”

Ian’s got his hand on Mickey’s forearm, “It’s been fucking years Mickey. Seven years and all this time I thought you just swept it under like some drug induced fucking bullshit coming out of my mouth.”

Mickey’s eyes are running across the freckles on the back of Ian’s hand, “Wasn’t it?

“Of course not! You can’t- don’t tell me you haven’t felt what I’ve felt. All this time?"

Ian's fingers are tight around his wrist now, "You can’t fake this Mick. Not with me. You can’t.”

“Say it again.”

His voice is soft as he turns his head. Ian’s eyes look so earnest.

“What are you-”

But Mickey’s always been forceful, “Say it Ian. _Again_.”

Ian’s breathless, “We could be something.”

Mickey feels the smile tick at the corner of his mouth.

Ian leans forward, their noses brushing, “We could-”

Mickey cuts him off with his lips pressed to Ian’s.

“I love you.”

Now Mickey’s breathless.

"That's what I said."

“I love you too Mick.”

**Author's Note:**

> This work, in style and moments, was inspired by a work in another fandom that I fell in love with. If you're a Teen Wolf sterek fan you should check it out. 
> 
> lodestone by llassah at https://archiveofourown.org/works/1416430


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